


For Old Times' Sake

by glassdemons



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 10:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassdemons/pseuds/glassdemons
Summary: It had been summers ago when they met, one second-hand Scotsman and one second-hand Irishman. Brooklyn born and raised, from life til death, or until rumors of murder became centered on Spot. Then Racetrack had left as though Brooklyn was nothing, as though those around him were nothing. As though Spot was nothing. Upon falling into hard times, Race comes back, not to ask for forgiveness, but for his old place at the track, knowing that's not how Brooklyn works under Spot's leadership.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not meant to be historically or canonly accurate, but more of a practice for something else.

“Hey, Spot,” someone hollered from down the dock, “Race is here.”

Sighing, Spot looked up from tying his shoes back on, turning to see that it was Splash who shouted, and he wasn’t lying. Pushing himself to his feet, he ran a hand through his wet hair. Racetrack looked almost nervous as he approached, though it was hardly likely that anyone but Spot had noticed.

It had been summers ago when they met, one second-hand Scotsman and one second-hand Irishman. Brooklyn born and raised, from life til death, or until rumors of murder became centered on Spot. Then Race had left as though Brooklyn was nothing, as though those around him were nothing. As though _Spot_ was nothing.

Tommy had jumped. Simple as that. Just because Spot was the only other one who knew how to get things back in order to keep Brooklyn from collapsing upon itself and the newsies from scattering didn’t mean anything.

Of course, Tommy had rallied around emotions, helping each other because it was the right thing to depend on your brothers. That was a bit more popular than Spot telling people who could have what streets to avoid infighting. No one else had any other plan, and no one was willing to do more than complain. It worked though, no one was scrapping over a plate of beans. Only a handful couldn’t afford boarding houses, and that was their own faults for spending every penny they earned too quick.

“What happened in Manhattan to make you come runnin’ back, Racetrack?” Spot asked, not in the mood to deal with someone who had left in the middle of that transition period. Race would have been such a help two winters ago, when everyone was cold and Spot had to spend everything he had saved on paper to sketch the city so that he’d be able to get everyone a guaranteed spot to sell.

“Well, ya see, Spot, there’s been a bit of an issue lately with newcomers. With the trolley strike and all that, kids gotta feed their families, you know how it is.”

Race had missed out on soaking anyone that wasn’t from Brooklyn and didn’t come to Spot to find their selling place. He had missed the whole transition from Scot to Spot, really, but if he believed Spot was a murderer already, then he would have been calling the police if he had seen the fights to get folks who didn’t sleep there out. Kids needed to be fed, that’s true, but apparently Manhattan was still refusing to organize any more than Tommy ever did, if an orphan like Race was being forced to compete with folks with families.

“Does Jack know your here?” Even if Manhattan didn’t have every street corner organized, Race had a way of making friends. They’d notice is he suddenly vanished, and probably wouldn’t be happy he left for Brooklyn when no one wanted to so much as look there in case they were accused of selling papes.

“Yeah, he knows, he was tellin’ me just last night that I needed a new sellin’ spot. Told him I’d come ask you, since, you know, you’re _Spot.”_

"Are you behind on your board?”

“Uh, you could say that,” Race laughed, adjusting his hat.

The newsies of Brooklyn deserved the corners of Brooklyn. If Race’s gambling had put him into debt, that was a problem born in Manhattan that should be solved in Manhattan. Jack and his idolization of being able to go where he wanted caused this. Brooklyn newsies were just as free, they just had a guaranteed place to sell every day that no one else would take, like those with good spots in Manhattan weren’t waking up early and running there to keep them anyway. Then again, it seemed terribly cruel to leave Racetrack on the streets because of where he had chosen to live. Leaving again would likely be difficult for him.

“What do you want?”

“I was hopin’ that uh, maybe I could go back to the track? Where I got my name, you know? Five days and I promise I’ll be gone, I swear it. You know I’m still the best, right, Spot?”

Spot simply stared at him in disbelief. After vanishing for two years, here he was, demanding the best spot in the borough.

“C’mon,” Racetrack tried again, this time sounding desperate. “For an old friend to get by, right? It’s summer, ain’t no one gonna get sick so bad they need where I’m at, right?”

“You left me.”

Race looked shocked, then turned away, looking out across the harbor. “Yeah well, bein’ seen with a killer wasn’t doin’ me no favors.”

“You knew I didn’t do it!” Spot grabbed his shoulder and turned him, not letting him look away. “You left me ov’r here, with ev’r’one sayin’ that I’m some kinda ambitious monster! If I didn’t have my plan, I woulda starved, and you left me to die alone, and now that you’re riskin’ goin’ homeless, in the _summer,_ you’re tellin’ me you want the track so you can afford to stay in Manhattan?” Giving him a hard shake, Spot swept on, “If you want to make sure that you ain’t gonna go hungry, maybe you should talk to Jack about reorganizin’ the way he runs things.”

“Don’t you go talkin’ about Jack like that,” Racetrack growled.

Spot glared into his cold black eyes, then let go of him with a push. Sighing, he turned to the harbor himself, trying not to think too hard about those eyes. “I respect Jack. I like that he’s doin’ what he believes is for the best for everyone while following his own path. But at a certain point, he’s gonna have to realize that he’s in charge, and he’s gonna have to either defend his boys or leave ‘em to rot.”

“Jack would _never_ leave us when we need him,” he snapped back.

“I’m not gonna be there if he does!” responded Spot, looking to Race once more. “I can’t be everywhere at once, and I’m not gonna try to be, either. Other places gotta look out for themselves, but for right now, I got Brooklyn runnin’ the way I want it. Folks are fed. Folks got beds.” 

“Shouldn’ta came,” Race muttered, backing away.

Spot started to let him leave, but a pang of emptiness hit him. It had been a long time since anyone had seen Spot as anything but a murderer or a king, or maybe some sort of tyrant. It was pure nostalgia, but part of him wanted to run and beg Racetrack to stop hating his guts for trying to fix the way things were, just so he could have someone at less than his cane’s length.

Instead, he called, “Hey, Race?”

“What?”

“Five days.”

He didn’t need to turn around to know that Race was grinning as he ran back to Manhattan.

* * *

On the sixth day, Spot went to the track himself. Across the stands, he could see Race selling his Manhattan-bought newspapers, undoubtedly pickpocketing cigars and placing his own bets.

External competition was bad for Brooklyn. But then again, Race was born in Brooklyn. He had promised all those years ago on that rooftop that he would die in Brooklyn. Spot continued watching him until Race finally turned around and noticed him. He seemed frozen, the paper he was holding fell to his feet, and his mouth fell open.

It felt good just to know that Race was back in Brooklyn, even if it felt like he was more than a shot away.

Spot nodded to him. Race’s fear turned into a lopsided smile. After a moment, Spot smiled back, then vanished into the crowd.


	2. Chapter 2

Race had lost count of how long he had overstayed his official welcome in Brooklyn by the time the strike started. Suddenly, there were no more nights on the docks, and he was back in Manhattan, more than ever.

He was grateful he wanted it this time, certainly. There were no more Bronx kids threatening him to leave, to let the harbor fall to chaos, to let Spot suffer under the accusations alone. He kicked his feet through the dirty water as he lit up a cigar, looking out at all the boats in the moonlight.

The strike was over, and Spot had been there when Jack wasn't after all. Spot was better than those Bronx kids; he didn't ask to be in charge the way they thought they could have after Spot jumped just the same as Tommy. Spot didn't spread rumors about Jack to get to where he ended up; he just did. When Jack came back, he went back to Brooklyn, and after the strike was over, he stayed there, minding his own business, not trying to capitalize off everyone and their mothers.

Maybe Race had been a coward three years ago for beating it instead of getting himself beat. Spot had seemed a lot more capable and infallible to him then.

Taking a drag, he remembered the look on Spot's face when he said Race has abandoned him.

No one was without weakness. Race just hadn't suspected he'd be said weakness of someone like Spot.

He heard footsteps behind him, but didn't bother turning around. Spot sat beside him, not hanging his legs off the edge—he hadn't hit his growth spurt yet, and would be hanging more off the dock than Race. He couldn't show a weakness like that in front of everyone who still thought he was an indestructible politician in the making.

“We're going to own one of those, one day,” Spot said, pointing to a Dogger. “Just go out on the ocean and come back with enough food for everyone.”

“Yeah?” Race asked, laughing. “And where are we gonna keep it? I don't think it'll fit in either of our li'l bedrooms with everyone in 'em.”

There was a long silence. Race looked at the Dogger, thinking it over. Maybe if they worked offshore, they'd stand a chance of working their way up until they owned one, or made friends rich enough to want to just give it to them.

“We'd live on the boat, Racetrack.” Spot was clearly thinking hard about it. “We'd catch enough to sell, and that money would be enough for us to get more supplies.”

Race nodded, picturing laying on an open deck with Spot under the stars. Then he realized that it was _Spot,_ and said, “You're a genius, y'know that? You ain't gotta be some fisher when you could just talk your way into some sort of fancy school, get yourself an education, be somebody _important.”_

“I am somebody important,” Spot retorted. “I have been since I was eleven, even! I just don't like it.”

Only Spot. “Oh, yeah? And what makes you think you'd like being a humble fisherman any better than a humble newsboy, hm?”

 

“Because if you and me are both on the boat,” he grinned, “you won't be able to run off to Manhattan and make me worry for a week.”

“I said I was sorry about that!” Race laughed. He was touched, really—Spot had so much going on already, what with taking care of Skipper, some little orphan that had attached himself to Spot's hip, and generally running the entirety of Brooklyn by himself, that he shouldn't have had the time to even realize Race was gone. “I promise I ain't goin' nowhere for longer than three days.”

“And you said you'd be out of the track by five.” Spot bumped his shoulder against Racetrack's.

Another silence fell over them, and they watched the boats rise and fall on the waves. Race's mind slowly drifted back to what he had been thinking of before, and how he had ran away like told the second the brass knuckles came out. Sure, he had been young—thirteen's never a good age to be making decisions—but so had Spot. He didn't run, or break down, or visibly think of himself as less than capable, even with the Bronx marching across Queens to get in on the action of everyone being too upset to fight for the good spots.

Part of him thought some of the Bronx still held a grudge against Spot for being so resilient, but they hadn't tried to make any funny moves while Spot was busy trying to fill in for Jack during the strike by organizing everything with Davey and Katherine. Then again, that had only lasted a couple of days.

He looked at Spot, who was back to staring at his Dogger. He looked away, then looked back. “I'm sorry, Scot.”

Spot gave him a look, first confused, then as though he had told a bad joke. “You're here now, right?”

Racetrack felt his throat close up a bit at that, so he simply nodded. He found himself unable to turn away until Spot did, back to the water. After a moment of quiet, he asked, “Just you and me on that Dogger, Captain Spot?”

“Just you and me, First Officer Race.”


End file.
